This
is the site of the Rimbaud family
farm. Arthur wrote A Season in Hell
here in the summer of 1873, after
being shot in the wrist by a distraught
and drunken Paul Verlaine. Their
tumultuous relationship aside they
were both true poets and recognized
one another. The property echoes the
cries of the poet Rimbaud, who did not
help with the summer harvest,
instead locking himself in his room
to write a masterpiece
This is
a likeness of the young Arthur
Rimbaud, smoking his pipe by
the Chapel de Mery, where his
ancestors are buried. I am in
Roche, with my friends Alain and
Antoine, visiting my land, which is
the site of the Rimbaud family
farm, where Arthur wrote his
masterpiece A Season in Hell.
Found amongst dead leaves and
precious rubble was a horseshoe,
deemed very good luck. Now
we are headed to Charleville to
visit his resting place. It is Arthur’s
birthday and I’m back on the road,
that of the language of a young seer
a likeness of the young Arthur
Rimbaud, smoking his pipe by
the Chapel de Mery, where his
ancestors are buried. I am in
Roche, with my friends Alain and
Antoine, visiting my land, which is
the site of the Rimbaud family
farm, where Arthur wrote his
masterpiece A Season in Hell.
Found amongst dead leaves and
precious rubble was a horseshoe,
deemed very good luck. Now
we are headed to Charleville to
visit his resting place. It is Arthur’s
birthday and I’m back on the road,
that of the language of a young seer
This is
the resting place of Arthur
Rimbaud, his young sister
Vitalie, his uncle and his
mother. When I first visited
here in October, 1973, the
cemetery was overrun with
massive cabbages. It was
an emotional experience for
a young girl alone, shivering
in the rain. And so ended my
birthday visit. This morning
back on a train to Paris, to
think about many things, and
write in my cafe, perhaps of
the strange streak of light on
the floor of my house in Roche
the resting place of Arthur
Rimbaud, his young sister
Vitalie, his uncle and his
mother. When I first visited
here in October, 1973, the
cemetery was overrun with
massive cabbages. It was
an emotional experience for
a young girl alone, shivering
in the rain. And so ended my
birthday visit. This morning
back on a train to Paris, to
think about many things, and
write in my cafe, perhaps of
the strange streak of light on
the floor of my house in Roche
This
is the track of the old Voncq Train
Station, two kilometers from the
Rimbaud farmhouse in Roche. On
this day, August 23, 1891, the poet
and adventurer Arthur Rimbaud
boarded the train to Marseille,
in excruciating pain, with his sister
Isabelle. His leg amputated, he was
consumed with the desire to return
to Abyssinia. Sadly he was never
able to board a ship or cross the
Abyssinian plain on horseback.
The tracks hold the memory of
his last bit of travel, his last
desperate effort, his last
impossible hopes.
is the track of the old Voncq Train
Station, two kilometers from the
Rimbaud farmhouse in Roche. On
this day, August 23, 1891, the poet
and adventurer Arthur Rimbaud
boarded the train to Marseille,
in excruciating pain, with his sister
Isabelle. His leg amputated, he was
consumed with the desire to return
to Abyssinia. Sadly he was never
able to board a ship or cross the
Abyssinian plain on horseback.
The tracks hold the memory of
his last bit of travel, his last
desperate effort, his last
impossible hopes.
This
is Ann Demeulemeester standing
before the place where the poet
Paul Verlaine shot Arthur Rimbaud
on the birthday of Proust in 1873.
They stumbled from the beautiful
main square, violently intoxicated,
living out their season in hell. I love
Brussels. The history. The ancient
streets. We had our first concert
here in 1976, one containing an
intensity I shall never forget. Ann,
who was very young, was there.
Now years later I always perform
wearing something she has made.
Her jacket, her vest, her shirt, and
most importantly, her friendship,
the seed planted in Brussels thru
music, and still blooming.
is Ann Demeulemeester standing
before the place where the poet
Paul Verlaine shot Arthur Rimbaud
on the birthday of Proust in 1873.
They stumbled from the beautiful
main square, violently intoxicated,
living out their season in hell. I love
Brussels. The history. The ancient
streets. We had our first concert
here in 1976, one containing an
intensity I shall never forget. Ann,
who was very young, was there.
Now years later I always perform
wearing something she has made.
Her jacket, her vest, her shirt, and
most importantly, her friendship,
the seed planted in Brussels thru
music, and still blooming.
*
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